


Rhyme and Reason

by Freezair



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: Also some implicit Carol/Anna, But nothing overt, F/M, I was gonna go in the direction of making this OT3 but it got away from me as it was, More like IMPLICATIONS and you could read them as friendly or a crush your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freezair/pseuds/Freezair
Summary: It's a well-known fact among the residents of Greenvale that Galaxy of Terror owner Carol MacLaine and Harry Stewart's assistant Michael Tillotson used to date. In fact, they were each other's first serious relationship back in high school.





	Rhyme and Reason

**Author's Note:**

> This is finally done! I feel bad for dragging my feet so bad on the Deadprem Rarepair Exchange--this ended up being much longer than anticipated! The pair I got was Michael/Carol, Carol/Anna, or all three together, and I ended up going with an idea of making it set several years before the game when all the characters were in high school. You could call this a high school AU, I suppose, though this is *mostly* canon compliant. I did mess up on one little spoilery detail, which I'll detail at the end for the REAL nitpickers. Otherwise, enjoy! 
> 
> Fun fact: I considered making the language in this much filthier to match up with the way real high schoolers talk, but then I decided to dial that back to comply with the way people talk in the original game. IE, "craphead" is the strongest possible insult.

Carol MacLaine hated people.

 

                As far as she was concerned, her hatred was entirely justified. She was constantly deluged with the worst of humanity every day: Intoxicated people stumbling down against the walls. Entitled boys and men who forced their pawing hands against women’s breasts. The jaded judgment in the eyes of everyone she met. And that wasn’t even getting into the ignorant teachers, the overwhelming homework assignments, or the shrieking parents of her fellow students who showed up at every school function.

 

                Her older brother Thomas loved to tell her to lighten up; high school is just another phase in your life, he said, and before you know it, it’ll be over. You’ll grow up and you’ll realize that all the other students there were just as frightened and confused as you were. Now _that_ was laughable advice if ever there was any! Carol wasn’t _frightened_ by her peers, she was _disdainful_ of them; there was a huge difference. And she wasn’t confused, either; she knew exactly where she was going to go and what she was going to do the minute the principal placed a diploma in her hands. Thomas wasn’t in any position to talk anyway, having been generally popular and well-liked. He’d set up a bake sale table at the football games and the recitals, and that was an easy way to make friends with perpetually hungry high-schoolers.

 

                She was also pretty sure that he would’ve become unpopular fast if any of the other kids had known his secrets. But no one he’d gone to school with was still around, so she couldn’t test that theory.

 

                No, Carol was more than happy to lurk against the walls of the hallways and the back of the classrooms, staying out of sight and mind of the other students and teachers. She’d fallen into a nice regular pattern in this, her junior year: She’d eat the lunch Thomas packed for her in her English class early in the morning, then during lunch itself, she’d run off and hide in a study room in the library doing whatever she pleased. Originally she’d tried to duck choir class in one of those rooms, but Thomas had scolded her for it. Their mother and her domineering stage-mom attitude could piss off in hell, but Thomas was such a kicked puppy she couldn’t bear to see him upset. She only visited her hideout when she was supposed to after that.

 

                And it _was_ becoming a nice little hideout, too. Nobody ever used those study rooms and the janitors never even came in to clean them. She could leave her textbooks in there for days at a time, and she didn’t even have to memorize a locker combination. She’d left snacks in them overnight and no one had eaten them by the next day.

 

                And then suddenly, she saw someone else was inside of one.

 

                He was a new transfer kid. He had to be—it wasn’t hard to remember the faces of every other student in such a small school. And this kid had a face she knew she would’ve remembered. Nobody else at Greenvale High would wear a double-breasted jacket to school, let alone a white one, and she’d never seen another male student with such smooth and immaculate hair. Did his parents prank the poor kid by telling him this was an exclusive private school or something? Or maybe they were a bunch of weirdo richies who moved to the countryside to escape the pollution of the big city and they just made the poor guy dress that way all the time.

 

                Either way, he reeked of the sort of boy she’d want to avoid at all costs. If he wasn’t a gullible sucker he was obnoxiously entitled. But… she _had_ left a bag of homemade cookies taped to the underside of the table. They wouldn’t stay fresh forever. And she could always escape to a different room.

 

                He looked up sorrowfully when she opened the door. The way his frown hung down and all of his hair seemed to droop was a little bit reminiscent of Thomas. It made her feel sorry for him for all of a microsecond—then she noticed the little brown specks of crumbs at the corners of his mouth and his slightly puffy cheeks. His hands were hidden away in his lap, but she heard the crumple of paper as he tensed.

 

                Carol glowered. The boy tensed. He swallowed.

 

                “Ahh… h-h-hello. You are… Miss Carol MacLaine?”     

 

                So he _had_ seen the name she’d written on the bag! And he’d eaten them anyway—the punk!   


                “These must have been your cookies. Th-that really is a shame.”

 

                “Yeah. Such a shame. Such a shame _you ate my food even though it CLEARLY SAID it was mine!”_

The boy winced. “P-p-please, you must forgive me for that which I have eaten. If I had had such things… before… I surely would be beaten. I am used to sneaking food—such a habit is quite hard to disclaim.”

 

                She twisted her lips at him. Something about the way he spoke seemed strange to her, and it was pissing her off. Her brain boiled and fumed while she tried to parse his excuse. “Listen here. I don’t care about _before,_ what you did _now_ is called ‘stealing,’ and I—“

 

                He sheepishly raised the bag. “I only managed to have three. There’s still some left.”

 

                She snatched the bag out of his hands with a sharp, papery _SKRUNCH!_ She reached inside without looking and stuffed half a cookie into mouth. She made sure he was looking while she chewed.

 

                “Miss, I understand why I am to be berated. You are clearly of upstanding stature. But I beg your better nature! For I am recently emancipated.”

 

                Rhyming. He was _rhyming._ That’s what was so off about him. What fresh hell was this? What bizarro alternate reality did he climb out of that morning? If he was the son of a rich couple, they had to be even more improbably eccentric than she could imagine. She set the bag of cookies down on the table and narrowed her eyes at him.

 

                “If you cut the Poe crap, I might actually listen to what you have to say.”

 

                “Um… s-s-sorry. That is to say… I just moved away from home. My mother had become… frightfully unstable, and I sought my independence. I just recently came here, and I was soon employed. But the fear engrained in me still lingers.”

 

                Carol pulled out a chair next to him. “So I’m not the only one here with mommy issues, huh?” She swung herself down into the seat. “I suppose I can relate. Was she as much of a domineering skank as mine?”

 

                The boy winced. “This is a matter I would prefer not to discuss. It still pains me to consider, and I do not like the fuss.”

 

                Carol’s glance whipped over to him.

 

                “Um… sorry again.”

 

                She chewed the other half of her cookie more slowly. “I guess I can respect that. So you’re on your own now?”

 

                “In a manner of speaking. Mr. Stewart—that is, Harry Stewart—offered to train me as his aide. His current assistant wants to retire soon and he desires a replacement. He gives me room and board, though I’m still just an intern.”

 

                “Harry Stewart? You’re staying up in that crazy mansion by the lake?” If this kid wasn’t lying, that would explain a few things. He probably went straight from school to doing whatever the assistant to a crazy old wheelchair-bound venture capitalist did. Helping him into his limousine, getting things off shelves, checkmarking companies to hostilely buy out. And what was the point of having money if you didn’t make your assistance dress like complete ponces?

 

                “You have _no_ idea.”              

 

                Carol smirked and put her feet up on the table. “You know, for a moment there, I actually believed you might be a real teenager.”

 

                “Well, it’s true. It’s quite a remarkable place! I would’ve have believe it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. There’s one massive room near the foyer which is capable of _rotating_ —the entire thing!—and so far I’ve spent most of my time just learning how to _navigate—_ I—I’m Michael, by the way.”

 

                “Carol,” she replied.

 

                “Ah… yes. I remember. It… was on the bag.”

 

                “Oh yeah,” Carol said. She looked into her sack full of cookies. “Here. I guess you can have another one.”

 

                “Much obliged.”

 

                “You can say ‘thank you’ like a normal person, you know.”

 

                “Ah… thank you.”

 

 

***

 

                She was only a little surprised to see Michael there the next day, and even less so when he was there the day after that. What surprised her more was when she asked Thomas to pack her an extra biscuit in her lunch, and when she managed to avoid eating it while Mr. Duston rambled on about Steinbeck.

 

                “Not to brag, but my brother’s a pretty good cook,” Carol said.

 

                “I agree! This biscuit is divine. I am very grateful you decided it was mine.”

 

                She crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “So. What’s the deal with you and this rhyming thing?”

 

                Michael stuffed the rest of the biscuit in his face. For once, he looked undignified—his cheeks puffy with food and his jaw slowly working. He swallowed slowly, bit by bit, and he was far too dignified to speak while his mouth was even the tiniest bit full.

 

                “My compliments to your brother, a chef quite supreme. Everything he makes is like a dream. Um, that is to say… It was very good, and I hope you give your brother my gratitude.”

 

                Diane shook her head. “So. Yesterday, the bell rang as you were telling me about Mr. Stewart’s statue garden…”

 

                Eventually, she’d get an answer out of him about the way he spoke. So what if it wasn’t today? The Stewart Mansion was almost the stranger of the two things, with its seemingly endless fountain of pointless mechanical apparati, its empty, misleading rooms, and its surreal décor full of dressmaker’s dummies and music stands. She supposed he could have been making it up to get her attention. A kid who apparently spoke in rhyme for the hell of it was certainly trying to make _some_ impression. But if he was, well… well…

 

                Each time he slipped into rhyme, she found herself caring less and less. Hell, she found herself playing along from time to time! She tried to see if she could guess what rhyme he was going to make, and if he didn’t rhyme, she tried to figure out how to phrase what he’d said in a way that did. And there was a certain pleasure in listening to the extremely ostentatious way he talked. If he was lying, he was an interesting, compelling liar, and his tall tales at least showed he was creative and could tell a story well. And on top of it all—yes. He was cute. Carol decided she had a thing for men in uniform, and that double-breasted coat was very flattering to his figure.

 

                Being boy-crazy always struck her as a waste of time. She’d grown up with a boy and later been raised by a boy. Boys weren’t that interesting. This particular boy even introduced herself to her by stealing her cookies! But when she rushed to the study room the next day, and her heart sunk to see it empty—she had to admit it. She was beginning to like Michael. Possibly even _like_ like him. She stared out the window on the study room until the bell rang and then slouched on to her next class, slowly nibbling on the extra garlic breadstick Thomas had given her.

 

                She quietly wondered all throughout her math class if he’d been sick that day. Or maybe it was Harry who’d been sick? He was supposed to be working as an assistant, after all. Maybe duty had called.

 

                But he found her in the hallway during the next passing period. He called out to her from behind—“Carol!”—and although it was noisy, she heard the sound of footsteps very specifically coming towards her.

 

                “I hope you will forgive me for my lack of punctuality,” he said. “I had to stay behind a class to learn some skills I lack.”

 

                “Good to see you,” she said and meant it. “Thomas gave me some garlic breadsticks to share with you. I didn’t see you, though, so I ate them. Sorry.”

 

                Michael smiled back at her. “I am not offended by your waste-not mentality. I’m just glad to see you briefly, even though you took my snack.”

 

                She chuckled and they both went on their way.       

 

***

 

                An innocent little scrap of a freshman girl approached Carol just as choir class let out. Carol didn’t know her name, but the girl hadn’t taken long to earn a nickname from her—Little Miss Grandstand. “Hi there,” she trilled, her voice infuriatingly singsong even after practice was done. “Didn’t I see you hanging out with Michael Tillotson the other day?”

 

                “Yeah,” Carol replied. “We’re friends.” She shouldered her backpack and turned toward the door.

 

                The girl was apparently as bad at reading hints as she was at blending into a crowd. “Oooh! You’re _friends?!_ Awww! Luckyyyy!”

 

                “You’re friends with who you’re friends with. Luck has nothing to do with it.”

 

                “No. You, like, don’t understand. A _totally_ hot and _totally_ loaded mysterious senior boy just gets transferred to the school one day? Here in _Greenvale?_ Like, _every_ girl wants to get to know him! He has to have a totally crazy story and be super interesting! And you already got in there and are chatting him up! Did you know him before he transferred here?”

 

                Carol wondered if the rhyming thing would be a deal-breaker for the other girls in school. She also wondered if they’d be able to handle the matter of his abusive mother. The answer seemed obvious to her. “No. …We just met recently.” Carol opened the door.

 

                “Ooh! Then you _definitely_ can’t blow this,” the girl said. “I was gonna ask Becky to try talking to him, since she’s rich too, but not like, _rich-_ rich, but not if you’re already in there! You’re the girl everybody wants to be right now, girl! You gotta tell him how you feel aye-sap!”

 

                Carol’s hand rested on the door handle. “…Why are you talking to me? I—“ She snapped around to face the girl. “What makes you think I have feelings for him in the first place?!”

 

                “Well, I _know_ you have a crush on him because you _totally_ blushed when I said his name.”

 

                Carol felt her ears go red. She pulled her chin into her chest and looked away. “So? This isn’t any of your beeswax.”

 

                “I was just gonna ask you if you could introduce me since _I_ thought he was totally hot. But it was totally obvious you already have a thing for him, girl! It’d be totally rude for me to sweep in and try to take him from you! Besides. It’s already _super_ cute in my head! I mean, I’m gonna be a model some day so it’d be really boring if I just married some rich guy. But you totally have that dark and brooding thing going on, right? You wear black a lot already. You’re so different and that’s _way_ more romantic.”

 

                “…You just told me you had a crush on him yourself. And now you’re ‘totally’ over him already?”

 

                “Yeah!” The girl clapped her hands together enthusiastically and did a little hop. “Now you’re getting it! I dunno. I just can’t resist a good love story, you know? You just blushed as soon as I said his name and I could tell you had it _so bad_ already and I started seeing you together in my head and I was just like, ‘Awww, it’s so SWEET!’”

 

                The way she smiled reminded her a little bit of Thomas. Even the perky blue skirt she was wearing even reminded her of her brother’s style. “So what. Where do you want to go from here?”

 

                The girl squeezed her hands together tighter. “Do you wanna ask him out?”

 

                “…Maybe,” Carol said to the floor.

 

                “Have you _ever_ asked out _any_ boy before?”

 

                “…No.”

 

                “Then you can just sit back and call me your Fairy Godmother, girl! We’re gonna get you a boyfriend!”

 

***

 

                Her Fairy Godmother turned out to have a name—Anna. Initially, Carol had dreaded her advice. She’d seen enough of those teen romantic comedies to know what was coming, and the word “makeover” sent chills down her spine.

 

                “What? Makeover? Nooo! He totally likes who you _already_ are! We just gotta get you a nicer version of what you already wear! Oooh, I saw this _SUPER_ adorable halfsies black jacket on sale at Mash Market the other day. It would REALLY work for you.”

 

                “I don’t exactly have a lot of money, you know.”

 

                “It’s OK. I just turned old enough to work and I totally got a part-time job already! I’ll lend you some.”

 

                “…You should keep some money for yourself. You have to invest in yourself too, you know.”

 

                “Oh, that’s OK! You’re not a charity, you’re a hobby!”

 

                Carol wasn’t sure what to think of that.

 

                Every day after choir, Anna needled at her to make _tomorrow_ the day she finally asked him out. Every day, Carol went into class shaking her head no. One week passed. Every day at lunch, Michael would tell her the latest strange story about what when on in the Stewart mansion, and Carol would tell him about her own employment—how in just a few short years, her brother would transfer ownership of their parents’ old bar, the Galaxy of Terror, to her. Another week passed. Michael lamented that he was working so hard now that he hardly had time to read or play the piano. Carol gasped and they broke into rapt discussion of their favorite composers.

 

                Finally, for the first time in three weeks, Thomas made cookies again. He gave her another bag to take to school.

 

                 There was a lull in their discussion. Carol had said something about how the old song “Pillow Stains” always made her think of when her brother would walk her home after school when she was little, and Michael nodded and said it was a lovely tune. Then.

 

                “Hey, Michael. Uh. Speaking of doing things after school.”

 

                “Yes?”

 

                “Do you maybe, uh, one of these days, wanna, like… go get something to eat at the A & G after school or in the evening or something…?”

 

                Michael smiled. “I gladly accept your invitation. The notion fills me with elation! When would be an ideal… date?”

 

                Carol glanced out of the study room. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a blonde head ducking just out of sight.

 

***

                Anna had insisted the best place for their date was the A & G Diner. Carol didn’t need to be convinced. All the summer blockbusters had left the theaters to make way for the dreary winter Oscar bait, alongside a handful of family animated movies she’d be embarrassed to go to anyway. They were minors, so they couldn’t go to the Swery 65 by themselves—Richard was too honest to serve them—and she wouldn’t suffer the indignity of having Thomas cooing over her date if she brought him home. Technically the Great Dear Yard Hotel had a restaurant attached to it, but Carol was sure old Polly Oxford was just as doting as Thomas.

 

                Besides, the diner was only a few blocks away from the high school. It was within walking distance.

 

                Carol wore the new jacket Anna had donated to her. Michael cleared the time off with his employer. “He told me I needed time to be young. I should go out and have some fun. So said Mr. Stewart.”

 

                “Eent,” Carol buzzed. “Not a rhyme. But a decent attempt.”

 

                “It isn’t always easy to come up with these off the top of my head,” he admitted. “So. Shall we walk?”

 

                “We shall,” he agreed.

 

                It was on the cooler side that afternoon, and an autumn wind blew leaves through the streets. The sun shone, but clouds were riding in on that wind, and Carol hoped it wouldn’t rain. For one thing, the A & G would likely close for the evening if it did. For another, the rain always gave Carol a headache.

               

                Why did fingers have to start feeling cold so quickly? Her cheeks felt pleasantly cool, but her hands were already starting to regret being out. And why did this jacket have to be so fashionably _short?_ She stuck her fingers into her armpits, feeling conspicuous and looking grumpier than she actually felt.

 

                Michael wasn’t looking at her. He walked beside her, but his gaze was constantly darting around. His eyes lingered on the trees full of red and gold, and the yellowed lawns full of tacky decorations, and the silvery-blue sky with its high, distant clouds already turning yellow. His eyes were wide. He was smiling.

 

                She drifted closer to him. “It’s not so bad, Greenvale. Once you get used to it.”

 

                Michael turned. His eyes flicked to her crossed arms. “Oh! It seems your hands have gotten cold.”

 

                “Yeah,” she nodded.

 

                “If you like, one I could… uh… that is to say, if it would please you, I could—“

 

                It was a good thing her cheeks were already red. “Uh. Sure.” Her left hand snaked out of her jacket and hung limp at her side. Michael’s fingers latched on more quickly than she was expecting. She jumped a little, and Michael quickly looked away, absorbed in a flock of geese flying overhead.

 

                His hands were warm and not rough at all. She squeezed the soft of her thumb into the soft of his and she caught a brief whiff of cool-smelling cologne. For all his niceness in the way he dressed, she had never smelled cologne on him before.

 

                “…I like your, uh. Smell. It’s nice.”

 

                “Thank you. Mr. Stewart let me borrow some of his cologne. I was worried I might smell too mature for my age.”

 

                She used her newfound grip on his hand to make him elbow himself in the ribs. “Then it suits you, you weirdo.”

 

                “I’ll elect to take that as a compliment.”

 

                “Glad we understand each other.”

 

                Michael suddenly became very interested in the posters on the nearby Chinese food place. Carol decided to read the fine print on a disintegrating advertisement for a band that had played in Greenvale long ago. They only saw one another’s smiles out of the corners of their eyes.

 

                They had to let go of each other’s hands to get the door to the A & G open. Carol immediately made for her usual booth near the back, close to the kitchen and warm aroma of comfort food. Then she thought of Michael’s cologne and got up to inch closer to the door. The boy himself stumbled after her, getting ready to move into a spot before she got up and took it out from under him. When she took her seat in the new booth, he hung over the table and hesitated. He inched toward her side for a second. Then a second thought yanked him back and he sat across from her.

 

                The waitress on duty waved her hand in their direction to show she’d noticed them. She finished taking an order from a family across the restaurant and stuck her notepad into her 1950’s-style waitress apron.

 

                Then Carol noticed who the waitress was.

 

                “So _this_ is why you wanted me to go to the A & G. You sly dog, you.”

 

                “Well, yeah! I _had_ to keep an eye on you! I’m Anna, by the way. I’ll be your server today! And just FYI, Carol is _totally_ my second best friend. That’s the second person to be my best friend—along with Becky—not that she’s second best at anything!”

 

                “A pleasure to meet you, Miss”—he squinted at her nametag—“Anna G. Any friend of Carol’s is friends with me.”

 

                Anna giggled. “Ooh, that totally rhymed! You’re a poet and you don’t even know it! Anyway. Can I get you anything to drink? Maybe a milkshake to share?”

 

                “That’d be a little on the nose,” Carol said. “I’ll have a lemonade.—Oh, and I’m totally paying for myself, by the way. You can keep our bills separate.”

 

                Michael looked surprised but didn’t object. “If you have some, I’d like hot tea. With cream and sugar, presently.”

 

                “We have black, green, chamomile, raspberry, English breakfast, and Earl Grey!”

 

                “Then black it will be.”

 

                Anna was done jotting it down before Michael was done saying it. “Alright! I’ll be right back with you guys’ drinks. I’ll give you a little time to decide what you want!” She winked and scurried off with a titter.

 

                Like most Greenvale residents of a certain age, Carol had practically grown up in the A & G, and she didn’t need to look at a menu to know what she wanted. Michael, however, began perusing it, reading the lists of entrees and appetizers. “Miss Anna is not the sort I would picture being a friend of yours.”

 

                “Me neither,” she said with a shrug. “But she just kinda… decided she liked me, I guess. She— _oh.”_

Her back rippled as the edge of Michael’s leg rubbed up and down hers.

 

                He pulled back immediately. “I-I-I am sorry! I did not mean to be improper.”

 

                “N-no. Keep—keep doing that.”

 

                “Very well. It’s just… you are quite easy to like, you know.”

 

                She gave a sharp laugh. “Ha! You don’t have to flatter me, you know.”

 

                “Truly! Your aloofness has a distinct appeal. In a surreal world, it makes you feel… real. You cut through the artifice and the façade. You think yourself cynical, but it makes me feel… awed.”

 

                “Yeah, and Anna there wants to be a model. If there’s anyone out there into artifice and façade, it’s her.” _Then again… she was pretty against giving me a makeover._

 “Perhaps there is more to her than there seems. She too, after all, has hopes and dreams.”

 

                Carol rested her chin on her hand and stared off into space. Maybe he had a point. Carol had never had much time for Anna’s type of girl before—the type obsessed with clothes and makeup and, yes, boys—and she’d always dismissed them as vapid. And yet here Anna came out of nowhere, forcibly making herself her friend, and going out of her way to make sure she and Michael were—well, that _something_ happened between them.

 

                _Surely she’s just living vicariously through me,_ Carol thought. _There’s no way she’s doing this for any reason other than her own little fantasies._

“Here you go!” Anna clattered back in front of them with her serving tray and set a tall glass of lemonade with an expertly poised lemon slice on the rim in front of Carol. She dropped a tiny silver teapot and teacup in front of Michael. “You said that the veggie lasagna was your favorite thing here, right, Carol?”

 

                “…I did. I… _was_ planning on ordering that.”

 

                “And how about you, _Michael?”_

“I admit I am intrigued by the experimental section. I don’t know what it is, so you should give me some direction.”

 

                “Oh, _that._ Well, Mr. Cormack is, like, always trying to come up with new recipes. And he doesn’t always know if something is going to be popular or not, you know? So that’s where he puts them all on the menu. They’re a little bit cheaper and they take a little longer to make, but it’s totally fun to try them sometimes! The ones that sell really well, like, get on the main menu too!”

 

                “The Thanksgiving Sandwich sounds fascinating. I’d like to see if the taste is elating.”

 

                “Sure! That one’s turning out to be pretty popular. We’ve actually, like, actually been running out of that one, so Mr. Cormack is preeeetty sure it’s gonna go permanent. We have all the stuff today though! You want chips, fries, mashed potatoes, or slaw on the side?”

 

                “It isn’t Thanksgiving dinner without mashed potatoes. So I think it is most fitting if I choose to get those.”

 

                 “Cool! Anything else?”

 

                “No,” Michael shook his head. Carol agreed—the A & G’s vegetable lasagna was ridiculously filling on its own. Anna jotted down their orders with a flourish and moved on with a swish of her frilly skirt.

 

                Carol smirked. “’Potatoes’ and ‘get those?’ Even Mr. Fantastic would say that was a stretch.”

 

                Michael sat back in his seat. “Sometimes I fail to consider the words I end on properly. But I refused to admit to defeat! I think it was a very reasonable save given the circumstances.”

 

                “Yeah? How about—“ Carol held her finger up in the air as if it was a radio antenna and she were hoping to pick up an idea. But as she mulled it over, she had to admit she couldn’t come up with a good rhyme for “potatoes” either. Shotatoes? Botatoes? Mo’ tatoes? Honestly, the fact that Michael was able to talk like he did for as long as he did was testament to his ability to think on his feet.

 

                She wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught him smirking. “Miss Carol MacLaine, playing my game is no easy task. It is quite challenging to maintain this mask.”

 

                She slumped forward on her hands. She was so far the only person she’ heard him stop rhyming around. Her thoughts buzzed around her head so noisily, she temporarily forgot the sensation of him rubbing up and down her shin.

 

                “…Carol?”

 

                Her skin gave a particularly insistent tingle. “Sorry. I was thinking. Just… about stuff, you know. I, uh. …I hope you’re OK a lot, Michael. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but… I hope you’re, like, dealing with it on the inside and it doesn’t beat you up too bad.”

 

                His leg stopped rubbing. He reached his hands across the table and put them around her wrists. She let her arms go limp, and her palms seemed to slip inside his almost of their own accord.

 

                “I, too, worry for you, Carol. You project an outward strength that I find most alluring. But it’s clear to me that something deep within you is hurting. I hope it does not put you in too much peril.”

 

                She gave his hands a squeeze. “’Hurting’ and ‘alluring’ doesn’t work so well, but I like ‘Peril Carol.’ It’s a little off too, but it still has a nice ring to it. Maybe it can be my new nickname.”

 

                He really did have very nice eyes. From the way Michael was staring back, she guessed he thought her eyes were pretty nice too.

 

                Something in the kitchen went CLANG!

 

                Carol jumped and Michael suddenly pulled away. There was the steadily decreasing rattle of something circular having fallen to the ground. An angry-sounding male voice bellowed out of the kitchen: “ _Anna!”_ The blonde head of the girl in question slowly came into view as she pulled herself up off the ground. Even at a distance, it was obvious her eyes were shining with tears.

 

                She dashed into the diner with those tears streaming behind her. “ _I’m sorryyyyy!”_

Nick Cormack, apron splattered with sauce and dough, took a step to follow her out of the kitchen. “Hey, wait—“

 

                Suddenly, Anna’s arms were around Carol’s shoulders.

 

                Big, hot strips of tears smeared against Carol’s cheeks as Anna sobbed into her shoulder. “Ohmigod. I am so, _so_ sorry! It’s all my fault!”

 

                “…Don’t you think Mr. Cormack is the one you should be explaining that to?”

 

                “Nooo, you don’t understand! I wanted to do this cute little twirl as I left the kitchen and brought you your food, like I’ve been practicing _so_ hard because it’s _totally_ cute and _so_ 50’s, which is, like, perfect for this place, right? And I thought you’d like it too. But I tripped and I dropped _all your food!_ And now your date is _totally_ ruined and I am so, _so_ sorry. And I know already I’m _totally_ gonna pay for _everything,_ right, because that was so, _so_ bad of me—“

 

                It was hot and shaky and slightly slimy. But… there was something nice about Anna’s hug. Carol had been hugged out of obligation many times before—by her brother, warmly but awkwardly; by her mother, like a vicegrip; by relatives, offering condolences she wanted to throw back in their faces. But Anna clung onto her like that hug was the only thing that could possibly right the her egregious wrong. She hugged like she felt Carol really _needed_ it.

 

                In a strange way, it was nice.

 

                “Hey. It’s OK. Really. If we have to wait longer to get our food—at least we get more time to spend together here, right?”

 

                Nick Cormack rushed up to them, looking far less enraged than she’d expected. “Hey, Anna! I just want to make sure you’re alright. You gotta be more careful!”

 

                Anna looked up from Carol’s neck. “R-r-really?  

               

                “Yeah. I don’t think we’ve ever had a server here who hasn’t tripped at least once. But I still had to make sure you’re fine.” He looked away. “I have to report any workplace injuries, OK?”

 

                “Oh!” She let go and Carol felt oddly sad. “I just… feel so bad! They’re here on a _date_ and—“

 

                “It’s fine,” Carol cut her off. “Nothing’s ruined. I promise.”

 

                “I concur,” Michael agreed. “Accidents happen to one and all. We take no offense at your tragic fall.”

 

                Even Nick smiled. “Well, if it’s a _date,_ I’m sure I could fix you kids up with one of my famous desserts for free. One bite of my apple pie convinced my wife I was the one, you know.”

 

                “Apple pie sounds like a lovely treat. A fitting thing to share with someone you find sweet.”

 

                Nick chuckled his way back to the kitchen. “Crazy kids. …Come on, Anna.”

 

                Anna followed.

 

                Carol twitched in her seat. “…Hey, Michael? Could you… come sit over on my side, please? And maybe… give me a hug?”

 

                He got up without a word and joined her on her side of the booth. Slowly, haltingly, he rested his head on her shoulder and threw one arm behind her back. His touch was lighter and not as desperate as Anna’s. There was a trepidation in it that hers lacked. But beneath it all was a gentle warmth that seemed to shore her up and helped her sit just a little bit taller.

 

                It was nice, too.

**Author's Note:**

> So... did any of you sticklers catch the detail I screwed up? 
> 
> SPOILERS:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> According to the game, Michael has been Harry's adopted son for at least six years. However, this story takes place four years before the game, and Michael moving in with Harry is a recent development. D'oh! Writers cannot do math indeed. My excuse is that Harry had adopted Michael "in spirit" and was looking after him for two years before this, but it took two years for Harry to legally win Michael from his mother. 
> 
> How a man with that much money couldn't influence the legal system to move faster I have no idea. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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